


Hopes And Fears

by Rhianne



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhianne/pseuds/Rhianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie worries for the future. Vague spoilers for Involvement and Fall Girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopes And Fears

Lying in bed, Bodie stared blindly into the darkness of his room. Weak moonlight came from a window a few feet away, streaming in through the cracks in the curtains the way it only does in the early hours of the morning, when darkness covers the land and shrouds a man’s secrets in shadow. 

He was tired, that pleasantly sated tingling deep inside his body that he’d learnt to recognise over the years. Sex always made him tired, and once it was over and the sharp, almost bitter tang of pleasure faded away, it was usually all he could do not to allow himself to drift away. 

The evening had been no different to a thousand others that had come before it – spending time in half a dozen pubs before sharing a bed with his lover – there was nothing unusual in that. But something had changed, because it wasn’t often that Bodie found himself staring restlessly into the darkness long after his lover had begun to quietly snore. 

This wasn’t a normal night, even though it might have seemed like it on the surface. 

Because this wasn’t just some woman lying beside him, someone to share a good time with before parting in the morning. It wasn’t even a girlfriend, someone to share love and laughter with for a few weeks, even a few months, until his eyes started to stray, or she became tired of the odd hours and last minute changes of plan that CI5 forced on his social life. 

No. The body lying next to him in the bed was too muscular, too toned to be any of the women he usually bedded. Even if it wasn’t, the two neat scars on his lover’s chest would be a dead giveaway. Just because it was dark, because he couldn’t see them, Bodie still knew they were there. 

Tonight it was Doyle who shared his bed, and that knowledge was responsible for keeping him awake late into the night. Not because Doyle was a man - Bodie had dealt with that particular hang up a long time ago, when harsh, lonely months in the jungle taught him that you didn’t need female curves to find comfort, to connect. 

It was a hard-learnt lesson, but one he’d never forgotten. 

Besides, as he’d always been fond of saying, he enjoyed sex too much to let gender get in the way. Sure, he’d tended to bed more women than men since leaving the mercenaries, but women had never been in short supply, and he had never been looking for anything more serious than a bit of fun. 

Until now. 

He’d been aware of Doyle right from the beginning, of course, since they first met at one of Cowley’s training sessions. 

Doyle had always been striking, beautiful in an unusual kind of way, and so insufferably arrogant and moralistic that Bodie had wanted to strangle him after an hour of meeting. When Cowley had announced they were going to be partnered he’d laughed out loud, and after two days come to the conclusion that he was going to either kiss Doyle or kill him. Possibly both. 

Yet somehow he’d managed to do neither, and their initial, uneasy tolerance of each other had gradually transferred into a deep, lasting friendship that Bodie would never have predicted in a million years. 

Quite when that friendship had turned into something more, he really didn’t know. It had happened so slowly, over a thousand nights out with the lads and endless double dates, or perhaps just from kicking back with a beer watching the football. 

Bit by bit, he’d come to realise that he preferred spending time with Doyle to anything else, and that was a secret he had always jealously kept from his friend. 

Not because Doyle was straight, they’d had too many drunken nights over the years, sharing secrets and tall tales while Doyle got over his latest crisis of conscience for Bodie to still make that mistake. Bodie knew that Doyle had the same liberal views on sexuality as he himself, and besides, if he had ever mistakenly thought Doyle was straight, he sure as hell knew the truth now. 

But Doyle had also always been just as promiscuous as him, and it was that knowledge now praying on his mind, keeping him from sleep. 

The night had started like any other – a few drinks, something to eat and a few more beers, but when the pubs closed and neither of them had got lucky they’d ended up back at Bodie’s flat. Not that it was out of the ordinary, but even at the pub Bodie had known that something about tonight was different. 

He hadn’t even had that much to drink, or rather he’d felt strangely sober in spite of the alcohol, disconnected from the world around him as he’d watched Doyle flirt idly with woman after woman, though never seriously. He’d watched Doyle in action for long enough to know the difference between harmless flirting and actual pursuit. 

No-one at the pub had really caught his eye either, and thinking back, Bodie could remember plenty of times during the night when he’d thought Doyle was spending as much time flirting with him as with any of the women. 

He’d flirted back of course, with just the right amount of restraint and amusement in his voice. They’d been flirting with each other in a strange, almost comforting, intricate dance for years, and it would have been stranger had Bodie not responded in kind. He’d always allowed himself that luxury, joking around with his partner, throwing out insults and propositions that got thrown straight back, little touches as they walked together, a needed reassurance every time their job made them stare death in the face. 

But there’d been a focused intent in Doyle’s eyes tonight that he hadn’t seen before, even though at the time he’d mistakenly blamed it on the beer. Then they’d returned to the flat, and that knowing glint had turned distinctly predatory. He’d hesitated then, strangely uncertain and unwilling to risk everything they meant to each other for just one night, but Doyle had been determined, a sheer force of nature, and hell, Bodie had never claimed to be a saint. 

Afterwards it was Doyle who turned over and went to sleep without a care in the world, and in the darkness of the early hours all the doubts and fears that Bodie had kept ruthlessly at bay, that had stopped him from propositioning Doyle years ago, had come flooding back, reminding him of all that could still go wrong. 

Where did they go from here? 

The very idea of watching Doyle work through yet another string of women, of double-dating with him, watching him kiss and touch someone else when Bodie knew exactly what that touch was like, when he already ached to feel it again - the very thought of it made Bodie feel sick. 

He couldn’t even pretend that it had been a drunken mistake, that the alcohol was to blame. He wasn’t that good a liar - not to Doyle. 

Sleeping with Doyle had been intense, sensual but hardly romantic, and Bodie had no idea if the extent of his feelings for Doyle were reciprocated. What if, to Doyle, he was no different than the hundreds of other willing women – and men – that he’d bedded over the years? Why should he be any different? 

It made him feel like an idiot, but suddenly Bodie was beginning to understand a woman’s eternal fear that they wouldn’t be respected in the morning, that they were offering something of themselves which wouldn’t be returned. Even putting aside for a moment the fact that his feelings for Doyle went so much deeper than simple, uncomplicated lust, what would happen if Doyle rejected him in the harsh light of day? Their partnership was too precious, too important to throw away for the sake of sex. 

He had no doubt that Doyle knew what he was doing. There’s no way the man was that drunk, Bodie’d seen proof of that with his own eyes, but even if they could salvage the friendship, if Doyle merely laughed it off as a buddy-fuck, Bodie wasn’t sure that he could ever go back to the way things were. 

Restless, Bodie climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, glancing over at Doyle in the darkness as the man shifted in his sleep. 

Doyle was lying on his back, head resting to one side as he slept. Bodie pulled the curtains open slightly, letting more moonlight into the room. Light fell across the bed, and with the duvet resting carelessly around his waist Bodie could see the silver, newly healed skin on Doyle’s chest where bullets had once been. 

He turned away abruptly, walking out of the room and heading for the lounge and the bottle of whiskey he knew was waiting. One shot disappeared quickly, another poured out in readiness before he sank despondently onto the sofa. 

What was he doing? 

They lived under the spectre of death every day, and had both come much too close in the past. Marrika’s death had nearly destroyed him, and he hadn’t truly loved her, not by the end. If this went any further, what would he do if he lost Doyle? 

Then Bodie remembered the sheer horror of finding Doyle dying on the floor of his flat, of watching him fight for every breath as he waited desperately for an ambulance. Wasn’t it already too late to go back? 

He ran a hand wearily over his face, expecting to feel the misery radiating from every line, every wrinkle forced upon him because of the life he had chosen. 

He had to bury this. Had to wait till the morning, until Doyle blamed it on drink, or temporary insanity, or whatever, and lock his feelings away. For good this time. 

He’d done it before. 

He lifted his glass once more, hoping the alcohol would finally send him to sleep, but movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him from draining the glass. 

“Hey,” Doyle was standing in the doorway, voice husky from sleep. Bodie watched mutely as Doyle’s gaze took in the scotch, and the darkness. After a moment, he walked quietly into the room. 

“Any regrets?” 

His tone was light, but Bodie could see the intense gaze in his eyes, even through the darkness, the expression that proved Doyle was as nervous of the answer as Bodie was of the question. A thousand responses flashed through his mind, from flippant teasing to an outright lie, but in the end Bodie simply shook his head. 

Fears about the future, yes, but he no regrets. 

Doyle broke into a broad smile, his whole body relaxing, and Bodie felt his own heart warming slightly as a flicker of hope flared at the brilliant grin. 

“Me either,” he said softly. “Come back to bed, Bodie. It’s cold out here.” 

He turned away and disappeared back into the bedroom, trusting that Bodie would follow him. 

Placing the half-full glass on the table, Bodie stood without thinking, walking silently towards the door and his partner. 

Maybe it really was this simple.

~*~*~

 **Make Love Stay**   
By Dan Fogelberg 

_Now that we love  
Now that the lonely nights are over   
How do we make love stay? _

_Now that we know  
The fire can burn bright or nearly smolder   
How do we keep it from dying away? _

_Lucid as dreams  
Barley remembered in the morning   
Love like a phantom lights   
But held in the heart   
It builds like the empty smile adorning   
A statue with sightless eyes _

_Moments fleet is sweet within the rapture  
When precious flesh is greedily consumed.   
But mystery's a thing not easily captured   
And once deceased, not easily exhumed _

_Now that we love  
Now that the lonely nights are over   
How do we make love stay? _

_Moments fleet are so sweet within the rapture  
When precious flesh is greedily consumed   
Mystery's a thing not easily captured   
And once deceased, not easily exhumed. _

_Now that we love  
Look at the moonless night and tell me   
How do we make love stay? _


End file.
